The river was long and wide. It snaked along through the jungle in curving bends sometimes broken by the occasional rock sprouting from the bottom of the river like a black tooth. Its inky black water, smooth and still, could pass as a perfect doppelganger of the night sky above complete with its celestial contents of stars and moon. Along this snaking river floated a red and yellow painted boat made from the finest wood taken from the finest trees that grew from the island where the boat’s passengers had come from.

There are three of them, brothers, whose names in our tongue meant adventurer and wanderer and nomad. They sat in the boat in silence as they have since the start of their journey. The one seated at the front, the eldest of the three, navigated them using the stars as his guide. The one in the middle rowed the boat forward with a paddle he himself crafted from the very same wood the boat was made of. The last one, the youngest, sat at the back with a blue guitar in his hands. It was from this instrument where the only sound in an otherwise completely silent night came from.

He played a song that invoked memories from years that had already passed. It stirred in the brothers emotions of which melancholia and nostalgia were most prominent. But to go back home was not possible. Not anymore. The only option for them was to move on forward, along the snaking river, all the way to the end.

Sometime through the night, their boat was accompanied by fireflies. They came from the mangroves that stood in abundance on either side of the river. It was like the stars had decided to float down from the sky. The brothers felt at peace draped in the faint, hypnagogic glow of the fireflies’ light.

For the briefest of moments they forgot all the things they were running away from and genuinely looked forward at what lay ahead. Together they fell asleep dreaming of floating along a river through the stars.